The Scarf
by merciki
Summary: He sees her every day - but does she ?


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She's all I can focus on, her, sitting next to the windows, her dark hair highlighted by the lazy rays of the winter sun, making it shine like mahogany or a very old whiskey, the kind I could savor for days without feeling hungover.

I have no clue what her name is, but I know she twirls her hair when she reads, or that she taps her left foot on the ground if something bothers her, highlighted by the scowl on her face.

I also know her coffee's getting cold, because she's been immersed in her book for quite some time now, turning one page after the other so slowly, completely lost in the story, taking her time.

I really can't help watching her, my hand itches to draw her slender neck, the freckles on the side of her face, that tendril of hair running wild, despite her efforts to tuck it back behind her ear. She's beautiful, in that ray of sun. Why didn't I bring my sketchbook this morning? Ah, right, because I'm here to work, even if this is a family business and I'm allowed to do it. I still remember Mom's talks about hygiene and dirty pens from my younger years.

No, no, no, she's moving, putting her book inside her shoulder bag, before taking a sip of a coffee with a grimace, as it must now be cold. She checks her watch before hurriedly shoving her things inside and quickly running away.

And I can't move, stuck as I am behind the counter until my shift ends.

She's been coming here for a few days now, always sitting at the same table if she can, always reading or typing something on her laptop. I spotted her for the first time when I brought a tray of Danishes into the shop. Annie doesn't know her name either, and Jo laughed at me when I asked.

Maybe tomorrow she'll be there and I will find the courage to talk to her. Yep, I have a good feeling about tomorrow.

 _The day after_

I didn't see her today.

She didn't come in. Or maybe she did when I wasn't working.

I hope she'll come again.

 _A few days later_

I think I used up a complete sketchbook on the mysterious with woman's neck. It's fascinating to see how accurately I can remember the placement of a freckle or how her braid curves naturally when she twirls it around her finger.

I haven't seen her in days, but the memories are so real… It's almost frightening.

 _Two days later._

She's here.

Sitting at her table, writing Christmas cards, and here I am, watching through the partition between the coffee shop and the kitchen, because I can't find my courage.

She looks around, as if searching for something - or someone. I see her eyes linger on a painting on the wall, the one of the Meadow I made not so long ago, of a time when I was happy. I painted the clearing out of the woods in my hometown, after the rain, with the girl that was my best friend then. Until she left with the rest of her family, after the death of her father - and I never heard about her again. With time, her face has faded away, lost in the past, lost in another time.

The woman is still staring at my painting, and from where I stand it seems like she recognizes it.

She finishes her cup, gathers the crumbs of her cinnamon roll - the ones I made this morning - with her fingers, licking them thoroughly before putting her coat on, not realizing how sexy the gesture is.

She gives a last look at the painting as she rises from her chair, and I stay still, mesmerized by her eyes, the color of the clouds before a storm. Eyes that look through me, never seeing me.

And she leaves.

Just like that, without looking back.

 _The week after._

She's there again, the dark beauty on exactly the same chair as the other days, the chair I call hers. I'm always frightened someone will take it, that she will have to move out of my line of sight and I won't be able to look at her.

Every day, though, like magic, her chair is empty, and I can bathe in her beauty. I'm so infatuated it's laughable. Really. I mean, I've never even spoken to her, I don't even know her name, but she's all I can think about. At work, at home, she's in my mind. Whether I make the cinnamon rolls - her favorite from what I can see, or draw her hand, or even do the dirty in my shower… it's her, always.

I should either go to a shrink or talk to her.

Try my luck, or be rebuffed.

So I can move on.

Or try to.

There's something mesmerizing about her, about the way her hair dances in the light, about her eyes, about everything that radiates from her ….

I have no words to describe the effect she has on me.

And she doesn't even know it.

She rises from her chair, too soon - she usually stays longer, long enough to have some pastries with her coffee, and before I have the time to think, she's out of the coffee shop, her bag hanging from her shoulder. The bells chime.

The wind outside blows a tendril of her hair away, and I see her shiver. She should be wearing a scarf…

She usually wears a scarf.

My eyes automatically go to the chair she used, and there it is. Deep green with hues of orange in it, her piece of cloth is here, forgotten, abandoned.

I move around the partition between the bakery part and the coffee shop, heading through the room, my attention fixed on the scarf, but someone beats me to it.

Johanna, my waitress, has grabbed it already.

She turns, a large smile on her face as she hands me the scarf.

"Go get her, Tiger," she tells me, pushing me towards the door. "And her name is Katniss!"

I stop dead in my steps.

Is it possible?

Could she be?

There's no way it can be her … my childhood friend, my first love.

My only love.

It's cold outside.

I should have grabbed a coat or something, I realize when the doors open again and Jo hands me my sweater before urging me to go once again.

Where could she be? I look around the busy street to search for the now familiar braid in the crowd. With my luck she's already in the subway ….

A flash of auburn catches my eyes, and there she is, crossing the road, heading towards the park.

Of course. She always liked trees.

I start running, not caring about the cars, holding the scarf in my hand as if for dear life.

I thank my years of going to the gym that allows me to keep a good pace until I enter Central Park and start looking around. She can't be very far away from me now…

My eyes take in the walkers and runners, the nannies, the kids, all the usual crowd until they find her, sitting on a bench. She's staring at the scene in front of her, her right leg crossed over her left, as if she's waiting for someone.

She's even more beautiful in the light of the sun.

I walk to her, slowly, because I do not want to disturb her peace.

Gathering my courage, I step in front of her, my arm extended as I hand her her scarf.

"Sorry to disturb you, miss." My voice is shaking, and as she turns to me I see the grey of her eyes shining in the light. "You forgot this at the coffee shop."

Her eyes sparkle in the light, and I am finally sure.

She's my Katniss.

The one from the meadow. The one who left Panem ages ago.

She found me.

She does the most exquisite thing as she looks at me - the corners of her mouth go up, in a smile I will likely remember all my life.

"I'm Katniss," she says, because of course her name is mysterious too. "And I didn't forget my scarf." She takes a deep breath before adding in a whisper. "Peeta."

I have no words to describe what her words do to me, no words strong enough to calm my pounding heart, no words beautiful enough to tell her what I want to say.

But she does all the talking.

"I didn't forget it. I left it on purpose. I was hoping you'd come after me." Her hand touches my arm, not even reaching for the scarf. "I was wondering if you'd remember me…."

There's only one word that comes back to me, as I take Katniss in my arms for the first time in nearly twenty years. Only one word that conveys what I feel, what I want to tell her. I don't need more than one, right now.

"Always."


End file.
